


the eventual give and take

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 04:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They keep each other alive. It’s very nearly symbiosis, but something else entirely."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the eventual give and take

The every day minutia of life, the breathing, the eating, the grooming, the speaking... banal.

Perfunctory, _boring_. It was from an early age that Sherlock Holmes was disinterested with the necessary human actions that accompanied being alive, well-off and educated (as he just so happened to be all three and all at once). That meant making certain the creases and cuffs in his trousers were sharp, that his teeth were brushed _three times a day_ , that he had to say please and thank you and lay his napkin in his lap.

That he had to ensure that he bathed himself, made appointments for grooming, laundered his clothing.

Boring, boring, oh heavens, earth-shatteringly bleak.

It took him quite a while when finally away at university--out from under the watchful eyes of Mycroft and his mother-to get in the habit of attempting to keep up with his peers, meet their level of personal attention to self-upkeep. Sherlock learned how to use the laundry and iron his blazers and that dry clean only indeed meant that a garment could not go through the wash.

It was the constant reminder of those around him -when his flatmate would take his hamper round to the laundromat, or when he would appear clean-shaven from the bathroom-that reminded him to focus such attention on himself.

Sherlock shaved ( _carefully_ , so carefully) and clipped his nails to the quick, combed his hair and washed his face. Indeed, for a time it became habit. Unlike other people who simply accepted that they had to perform certain rituals every so often in order to keep themselves presentable, Sherlock had to remind himself and constantly.

\---

John retrieves the groceries and the laundry; he cleans the flat during periods when Mrs. Hudson deigns not to. After awhile he stops railing at Sherlock to pitch in and help out because his pleas fall on deaf ears.

Sherlock never says thank you but somehow the relationship becomes one of co-dependence.

They keep each other alive.

It’s very nearly symbiosis, but something else entirely.

\---

John isn’t sure why Mycroft appears on their doorstep, but he opens the flat door to him regardless. As though a rectangle of wood would have stopped him from entering. The man must hold a million keys, some of them surely pertaining to his brother.

It’s easier this way.

“Your hair is in need of a good cutting,” Mycroft had mentioned once, tapping at the fireplace grate with the end of his umbrella. He said it in a manner that made John believe he’d had to say it many, many times before.

Sherlock had pinched the end of a curl between thumb and forefinger, pulled until it was straight and glossy, over his brow. After gazing at it for a long moment, he released the hair and it sprung back into a relaxed wave. He rounded, turning his attention back on his brother. “And from the look of your hair, and your _eyes_ you haven’t slept in _days_.”

“Regardless,” Mycroft had stated, languidly, “You are a mess of an individual, Sherlock. See my barber at your earliest convenience.” He’d tossed a card down on the small table before him and bade the inhabitants of 221b adieu.

Sherlock paced the room twice before plucking the card and placing it in his pocket.

“What?” Sherlock had asked quietly when he noticed John watching him.

It took him a moment, but John couldn’t put a finger exactly on why he was feeling so off. “Nothing.”

\---

He stops coming out from his room, at all. For a week. John attempts to get him to come out and eat, to shower, to speak, but the door remains closed and Sherlock remains silent. He can hear the man moving in his room, frantically for hours on end and then nothing, for a long time. John leaves the flat several times when he has no particular destination in mind, in the hopes that Sherlock will emerge and feed himself.

When he returns, there has been nothing disturbed in the kitchen. No discernible food missing from the refrigerator.

On the eighth day, the detective peeks out of his room. “John, _John_ , I asked you for a hammer!”

Bounding up the stairs, John brings the hammer, handing it to him through a crack in the door. Sherlock snatches it away and meets John’s eyes for a long, static moment. “Sherlock... have you... you haven’t left your room in a week.”

John tries to look past the lanky frame in the doorway to the room beyond; he pulls the door tighter to his body and shields his bedroom from view. Ah, experiment, then.

“So,” John continues, assessing what little of Sherlock he can actually see. “Perhaps it’s time that... you... leave.”

Sherlock considers this, “I’ve left.”

John wrinkles his nose. “Right, well, word from the wise, it’s time for a shower and a shave.”

His eyes narrow and Sherlock thinks about John’s words for a moment then promptly slams the door in his face.

\---

“Here are four Oxfords, cut to your... specifications. Kindly attempt to keep them in good repair as they’ll have to last you awhile.” Mycroft hands over the garment bag with little interest, gives his brother a once-over and sees himself out.

Sherlock glances at the bag for a moment before unzipping it to reveal the clothing within. He pulls out four, starchy button downs, all in varying shades of gray. He lays each out on the sofa and stares. Sherlock tests the weight of the fabric with is fingers, pulls at the collar a bit. “Fine,” he says to no one, but John watches as he plucks up the hangers and makes his way up the stairs where he is surely fitting the new shirts in amongst old ones.

When he returns, John hides his face behind a cup of tea and asks very casually, “Mycroft keeps you clothed, then?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, blinks. “What?”

John’s no fool, he knows that Sherlock understands what he’s said; there’s comprehension. Sherlock simply does not wish to admit that he does indeed rely on his older brother for some things.

\---

“Sherlock!” John says, doesn’t mean to call out that vociferously, but... “Your sleeve!”

Sherlock’s chest heaves, having sprinted down Baker and up the stairs to the flat. They’ve both been running, fast and for quite awhile; the adrenaline thrums through their veins. John places his hands on his hips and points to the right arm of his coat.

The detective's gloved hands skirt over the area where John is pointing; the shoulder. He feels nothing and gestures wildly, ‘what, what!?’ “What?”

“It’s pulling, the seam has.. the seam’s ripped!” John isn’t sure why this is such a surprise, but it is. Something so brashly unkempt;; the stitch, it had _dared_ to separate, brazen. They’ve been running from trained killers, and it’s not a stretch that their loud footfalls have led said killers right to their door, but the only thing that John can focus on it Sherlock’s sleeve.

“Yes, yes it’s been like that for... ages.” He regains his footing, finds his breath and shucks his coat, all in a few short seconds.

John heaves, Sherlock heaves. Weeks and weeks of chasing and not finding, rest, respite and then again. Adagio, unexpected, and John hasn’t slept in eons, feels like. It’s a shade of delusion, almost, but not quite. John’s brain roils and bucks, repeats, reminds him.

“You should bloody well get that fixed. Proper!.” And then they’re both dissolving into laughter because, well, adrenaline and lack of slumber and who the hell would care about a coat at a time like this?

There are _literally_ people wanting to kill them, right at this moment; coats and their state of ill repair should not be on the forefront of John’s mind.

When everything subsides, John takes his coat and darns it, stitches it up like a battle wound and hands it back to Sherlock without a word.

\---

It’s a careless thing, and John knows that Mycroft has left this business to him because Mycroft hasn’t bothered to show his face around Baker Street in weeks. Sherlock is a garden, growing over steadily, weeks and weeks untended. Vines twining around a rain pipe except the rain pipe is the man’s neck; it’s all overgrowth at this point.

Rain pattering against the windowpanes, an old, staccato beat and John accepts it all for what feels like a very long time. Watches as the stubble threatens to morph into a beard.

It’s lucky, that John remembers what the razor can do for a man’s cheeks. “Can you just, please, please, do something about that.” It’s the fifth time John has suggested it without meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

No amount of verbal goading has worked to the present; John isn’t sure why he continues to bother.

“About what?” The man is truly baffled, has no clue what John is referring to and it takes a few long moments for it all to dig in. John tosses down his paper and stands from his chair and advances on Sherlock.

John throws up his hands and they land resolutely back on his thighs; days of sleep deprivation and having to look at it for _days_. “Your _face_.” Oh, he’s forgotten, surely, the strictures of being a grown male and what happens of days not tending to his cheeks. It’s maddening, because the growth is erratic, and it itches John’s palms, to just smack him in his head, ask him, _beg him_ to shave.

Sherlock sheds his coat and places his hands to his face; they’re both glazed with a sheen of moisture, from the rain, and no doubt he feels it against his fingertips. John’s hands can’t _help it_ because it grates against his better reason and begs for a resolution... his fingertips touch Sherlock’s jaw. “You need to shave, you need to.”

“Need?”

“Damn, you can’t, Sherlock, _you could not grow a beard if you tried very, very hard._ ,” it should land as jest but there’s a very thick silence between them as John removes his fingers, Sherlock drags a long-fingered hand over his jaw, up his cheeks, beneath his nose. Like he can’t help it and _he can’t_.

Some things can’t be helped. “Really, this must have something done about.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Is this to become a _thing_?” He hooks his scarf around on the back of the door, regards John as though he _expects_ something to be done about it. “I haven’t the time tonight, too many _thoughts_ ” and Sherlock waves John off with a dismissive hand.

“Tonight,” John says, definitively and Sherlock waves him off again. “You look bloody ridiculous, you’ve got to-”

“If it’s of such concern to you, you can take care of it!” Sherlock grinds out, sits himself in his armchair and steeples his hands to the bridge of his nose. Thoughts, thoughts, too many thoughts.

John blinks, sighs, actually clambers up the steps and makes his way into their cramped bathroom. Pausing before the mirror, he stares at himself and wonders, honestly, what he’s doing. But the thought of Sherlock leaving the flat, his face patchy with an unkempt beard is _very_ distasteful (if only for the remarks he would be sure to receive from Donovan.)

Deciding quickly, he snatches his can of shaving cream and the other razor (it’s not John’s and simple deduction would mean that it is indeed Sherlock’s) and takes the steps back down, two at a time.

“Taking care of it,” John says judiciously when he reappears in the living room.

Sherlock shoots him an annoyed look but moves his steepled hands some the bridge of his nose to lie in his lap and John is startled. ‘Really,’ he wants to ask. ‘That easy?’

There’s a bowl of warm water and a damp cloth and John has never done this for anyone else before, but it feels like muscle memory.

His hand is surgeon-steady and meticulous; there’s the drag off over-effused cream against stark jaw, but John doesn’t seem to notice; his hands moves gently and without emotion. Sherlock sits, motionless and waits for John to finish.

John’s fingers ghost around Sherlock’s ear as he managed the hard lines of Sherlock’s jaw and Sherlock remains silent and still, his eyes following John’s movements. The set of he mouth is straight and serious and honed in on the task at hand.

Before he can register what’s happening, Sherlock’s body relaxes back into the seat, no longer on alert. It’s been surprisingly easy to trust John and this simply solidifies the notion in his head, that John is no ordinary person, he is extraordinary in many, _many_ ways. Lips pursed, Sherlock follows the movement of John’s hand as he dips the razor in the bowl of water and cleans it off.

He swipes Sherlock’s face clean with a towel, runs two fingers over his cheeks and neck, checking to make sure he’s done an entirely thorough job.

John stands and gives Sherlock a curt nod, “There.” But there’s a slight pink tinge to his cheeks and John refuses to make eye contact with him.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hums, goes back to ruminations, gaze focused on the empty fireplace.

Nothing changes.

\---

It’s the first time in months, but when John sits down in the restaurant to eat, Sherlock actually peruses the menu. Before, John had felt awkward eating when Sherlock hadn’t, knowing that the other man was full well picking apart his thoughts by the precision (or lack thereof) of how he ate.

Now, Sherlock ordering a bowl of soup and John doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. John blinks from the menu to his companion and asks the waiter for a few more moments, please. “Sherlock,” he asks, as though this is all a precursor to something, as though there’s something lurking right around the corner.

“I remembered, this time,” Sherlock assures him, his voice deep and sympathetic. “That I need to eat.”

It’s certainly a pat on the back moment, but John simply tilts his head, smiles with his eyes. It pleases him that Sherlock is taking care of himself.

\---

It’s no surprise that Sherlock Holmes cannot hold his booze, though how is John to know this as he’s never seen the man imbibe so much as a drop. It’s a stolen bottle of bourbon (from Mycroft, obviously) and it’s out of something like victory when he cracks the seal on the impossibly expensive bottle and pours too much into two tumblers.

Sherlock does not know how bourbon is properly served and John does not correct him, just takes his glass with a “cheers,” and takes a pull.

Dark, delicious, butterscotch and fire, sliding down his throat. John settles back on the couch and watch as Sherlock adjusts to the drink, learning how it feels on his tongue, around his teeth, how it feels going down.

They’re quite silent for a time before Sherlock speaks up.

“It’s all been much easier with you around,” Sherlock admits; his voice isn’t slurred and his movements aren’t in the slightest way altered but Doctor Watson knows about blood alcohol level and can adequately say from the amount that Sherlock has imbibed over the time which he has been imbibing, that he is intoxicated.

The pink is a bit high in his cheeks, too.

John balances the glass between two fingers and gazes through the amber liquid, to Sherlock beyond. “Is that so?” He’s not pressing, but he is acknowledging the sentiment and he _swears_ that Sherlock smiles a bit.

The other man swallows what’s left in his glass and refills it, giving it a few moments before adding, “Life is... easier.”

There is silence for a time and it’s companionable, perhaps even a touch more than companionable; John senses that things have shifted though if pressed to put it into words, he’s not sure he would be able to. “Cheers,” John drawls and watches as his words pull at Sherlock’s lip, causing a soft smile.

Sherlock responds quietly, “Cheers,” and they finish off most of the bottle, without words.

\---

Sherlock picks up the milk.

John gapes for a good ten seconds before bothering to thank him.

\---

Cohabitation finally works its way into Sherlock’s bones after they’ve been living together for roughly two years. He understands much of the give and take, even if he won’t own up to it. There are moments, however, when Sherlock does quite considerate things when he thinks John will not bother to notice.

He wipes down the bathroom or folds John’s clean laundry for him. Whenever John thanks him, Sherlock puts the sentiment to rest with a wave of his hand, as though it’s nothing.

He begins emulating John’s habit, though not to the extent that John does. Sherlock rarely irons his slacks but he does pass the appliance over his coat after running about in the rain in it for days.

“I can drop that at the cleaners for you,” John mentions as Sherlock steams the collar.

Sherlock lifts the iron, tilts his head and moves the coat into a better position on the board. “Unnecessary,” he says quietly and goes about working on the cuffs. He is meticulous and precise and John can’t help as his hands maneuver the iron over the thick wool.

John watches and watches as Sherlock strives to remove all of the folds and creases from the coat. His eyes begin to grow heavy but he can’t look away and after a few minutes he sinks down into the armchair, asleep.

\---

“Called for some carry out,” John says when Sherlock bursts into the sitting room, bringing in the chilly night air with him. John doesn’t even bother looking up, collecting his keys from the table, buttoning his jumper. “Would you like me to pick up anything else while I’m out?”

“Where did you order from?” Sherlock slings his coat on the back of the door, busies himself with texting as he flings his lanky frame onto the sofa. He toes off his shoes quickly; they hit the floor with dull twin thuds.

“That Thai place, down the way?” John knots a scarf around his neck and slides his palm over his pockets, checking for his wallet.

“Just some naan, then,” Sherlock requests and John smiles.

He _can’t help_ smile at that; even after all these months he hasn’t learned that John can’t stop taking care of him, making sure he’s eaten and slept as though it’s second nature; perhaps it is, by now. “I meant aside from the food Sherlock, I ordered enough for the both of us you git.”

His fingers pause in their texting and he glances over at this flatmate from beneath his fringe.“Oh... oh, alright.”

John laughs as he shrugs on his coat. “Yes, alright.”

\---

John’s been at the surgery for nearly thirteen hours straight; it takes all of the energy he has left to open the front door and pull himself into the hallway, the bags in his hands weighing him down considerably more than they would normally.

“You’ve taken the shirt to the cleaners, then?” he hears Mycroft’s voice; it floats down the stairs in all of its condescending grace. After the day he has had, John doesn’t wish to watch Sherlock and his brother go round for round.

He begins climbing the steps but pauses at the tone of Sherlock’s answer. “I have,” he’s not petulant or angry but sounds, well, positively _pleased_.

Mycroft laughs, an actual laugh, deep in his throat and the sound shocks John to thoroughly that he almost slips and falls down the stairs. “John’s effecting you or perhaps you’re emulating him, either way...”

There are no words after that but John gives it a few moments before he bounds loudly up the rest of the steps and into the flat. “Ah, Mycroft!” John says, bringing his shopping into the kitchen. “Care for a cuppa?”

John turns just in time to see Mycroft wiping the smile off of his face. “Oh no, John, in fact I think I’ve overstayed my... welcome.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, “Do leave.” They share a look, one of malice as per usual, but there’s something else, something brighter, lighter. 

“Remember, brother that you must now remember to _retrieve_ your clothing on the appropriate dates, you can’t just expect-”

“Yes, yes, perhaps I’ll get a _day planner_ and write all of these very important appointments down,” Sherlock spits and throws his body onto the sofa, tucking his hands beneath his arms and staring at the ceiling.

Mycroft gives John a curt nod and with a swift, starchy movement made his way out the door.

“Where’ve you dropped your shirts?” John asks, plugging in the kettle. “Smith’s?”

Sherlock simply hums.

“I can stop by and get them for you when I pick mine up,” he fiddles in the cupboard, searching for his favorite mug. Sherlock is silent in the sitting room, makes no sound as to whether that would be helpful or, no, no unnecessary. When he locates his mug, he wipes a bit of dust from the edge, places it on the counter, “Sherlock?”

When he glances in, Sherlock is flat on his back, rigid as a board of pine his hands turned palm up at his sides. “Right,” John says, still slightly amused at the positions his body choose to take. “Right, then.”

“Might I!” Sherlock positively shouts and John nearly drops his tea. “Pick up your... laundry... when I retrieve... my own?”

“Oh,” comes John’s surprised utterance. It’s strange, John’s aware, very strange and the weight of what’s being offered hangs in his tone. “Oh, well, I suppose, that’d be nice, Sherlock, thanks.” He moves slowly as he adds the sugar to his tea, puts the canister back in the cupboard because he’s processing everything. His flatmate, offering to do something _helpful_ , with not obvious benefit for himself. John runs through the list of things that could be going on, what his agenda could be.

It turns out, Sherlock just _wants_ to be helpful. “Brilliant!” Sherlock says, sidling up next to him without a sound.

“Jesus!” John jumps, does manage to spill some scalding tea on his hand.

\---

John chooses his battles. Sherlock running for days on end, no sleep and John presses two pills into his palm with a plea, “Please,” and Sherlock manages for four hours before he’s up and at his violin.

John makes the tea and the toast and makes sure that Sherlock eats his fill, dogs at him until he’s made sure that nutritionally speaking, Sherlock is out of the danger zone. John’s is a careful watch and he keeps the refrigerator stocked just as Sherlock assures that they have work to tend to.

The coexist and everything is quite nearly normal for quite some time.

\---

“New shirt,” Sherlock observes, typing away at the computer, hastily. He’s not actually looking at John but then, he doesn’t really have to.

The other man checks himself in the mirror, slinging a tie around his neck, maneuvering the silk under the collar. “Date tonight,” and he bites his lip in concentration as he attempts to straighten the ends. There’s a pause in Sherlock’s typing and then he’s watching him, gaze boring into John’s back as John strives to keep his eyes on the task at hand, in the mirror.

His fingers shake and for a moment he just can’t manage; much like one sometimes forgets how to tie one’s shoes, John’s forgotten the basics of securing a necktie.

John ties and reties the damn thing before Sherlock steps up to him, curls his hand around the silk and somehow manages to make the damned thing straight. His hands nearly _snap_ with precision as he slides the tail through the loop and snatches the tie pin off of the mantle. When he’s through his hands still, and the breath that shudders out of Sherlock is taut with something. (Everything, with _everything_.)

It’s enough, the closeness, the intensity in Sherlock’s stare. John is surprised that the floor seems to be shifting, that his stomach seems to be filled with thousands of Monarchs. There’s a glare in the other man’s eyes, even as his palm turns to a fist and he tugs at the tie until they are chest to chest. “John,” Sherlock grumbles before he loses the battle he’s having with himself and glances down at John’s lips.

Bets off, John thinks distantly (because isn’t it always in the films when that happens?), as though he’s watching all of this from the outside, as an observed. But then Sherlock’s lips are against his, solid but so _pliant_ and John doesn’t know what to do, where to touch, how to stand or think and so he gives a small bit of himself over and let’s Sherlock control this moment he’s made.

John breathes out a little because this is, this is exactly what he’s needed. What he didn’t know he _needed_ , so acutely that his synapses are going rapid-fire and his mind is eagerly striving to remember each millisecond _exactly_.

When Sherlock releases him - god he does feel held captive and adores the feeling - John keeps his eyes closed for a moment, giving the other man the time to disappear, whisk himself off into the darkness, John owes him at least that.

But when he peels open his lids, there is Sherlock, standing right before him, same gleaming glare in his eye, hand fisted around John’s tie and he says, “No date tonight,” quite gruffly, waits a beat and returns to the laptop.

John blinks across the room at him, glances down at his now rumpled neck wear and sighs. He’s shaking, his entire body is shaking as he meets his own eyes in the mirror. “No date, then.”

\---

Sherlock has to remind himself constantly that he cannot simply _touch_ John and John knows this because Sherlock says this aloud and often.

At first it was quite amusing, the way Sherlock had watched him _so closely_ days after the kiss. “I won’t touch you, John,” he’d said out of the blue, the day afterward. John wasn’t sure whether Sherlock was attempting to reassure him or reassure himself.

Either way, John shrugged it off, didn’t object when he slide his knee against John’s in the cab ride to Scotland Yard and hadn’t said a thing when Sherlock had brushed snowflakes from his hair.

And now, as Sherlock enters the bathroom without knocking while John is in the shower, he stays silent. The taller man stands at the foggy mirror and makes a show of shaving, long, slow strokes with the razor and John watches carefully, from the cocoon of steam that envelops him.

This is the loudest conversation they’re going to have on the matter, John thinks.

\---

John, up to his elbows in suds, finally tackling the mountain of dishes that Sherlock had promised and promised and promised to clean throughout the week and that had not been cleaned and had left them devoid out of any plates or cups or cutlery.

“It’s certainly not new information to you that I’m not sure how to do this,” Sherlock says, right behind him and John drops the dish with a watery thunk, into the sink.

John chuckles, “No mate, I’ve seen you do the dishes, you don’t _like_ to do them, but...”

“John, I believe I’m attracted to you,” it’s matter-of-fact, said in his normal tone of voice and for a brief second John desperately wants to laugh at the _absurdity_ of it all. Something high-pitched and insane, he wants to laugh because of course this would be the moment and the manner in which Sherlock would choose to release such an incredibly heady statement of fact. “If I’d known that this particular situation would have arisen I would surely have done my best to circumvent it.”

Sherlock’s voice is steady, even, crisp as usual, but it causes John to deflate a bit.

“I know how to do the dishes, yes, and the washing and even the cleaning, the, the,” he’s becoming wound up with the energy of his words. “Though it seems I may not, I’m aware that an integral part of keep up one’s appearance includes shining one’s shoes. That is to say that while it may not appear that I know how to perform these duties, that I have _knowledge_ of the basics of the upkeep of... human beings.” Sherlock huffs indignantly and squares his shoulders.  
“Regardless of my knowledge of the human condition and how human beings... act and react, this is a bit of a blind spot for me.”

No, but John’s not hearing this, Sherlock admitting he doesn’t know something. He swipes his damp hands over the legs of his trousers, crosses his arms tightly over his chest. “Emotions into words, it’s so numbingly dull, isn’t it? Boring, dull, terrifically difficult but there is a time when the emotions must be spoken of, I believe.”

Eyes narrowing, John simply watches Sherlock watch him.

“I’m sorry, wait one moment,” John criticizes, “You’re saying after two weeks, after _that_...” John doesn’t know how to say it, so he _just says it_. “Kiss, that you’re decided right now that you’re attracted to me.”

“No.” Sherlock begins and John starts so Sherlock hurries to catch him up. “Yes, but not now. I’ve not just now decided this and perhaps the descriptor ‘attracted’ isn’t appropriate,” Sherlock glances at the ceiling, searching for words.

“Oh,” John says, nodding, pursing his lips, because this is possibly the most painful thing he’s ever heard and he can’t stand it. If only Sherlock were a man of few words, a man who knew what he wanted.

“Don’t act aloof, John, it doesn’t suit you,” Sherlock says and takes a step closer but says nothing further, does nothing further. After sixty long, silent seconds, John smiles self-deprecatingly and shrugs, turning his back and his attentions back to the dishes.

Sherlock leaves before he’s through with the drying.

\---

“Destroyed by,” Sherlock says to him the next morning as he’s leaving the flat. It’s a flurry, when he leaves, a twist of wool coat and footfalls on the steps. A door slammed, down and out.

John’s seated in the sitting room eating his Wheetabix and doesn’t really process what Sherlock’s said. It’s not until later that he puts it all together.

_”I am destroyed by you.”_

John puts down the pair of socks he is rolling together and finds his coat. He takes to the London streets with a single goal; he thumbs his phone and before he stops to think about it, sends a text.

_I will walk all night if that’s what it takes. Where are you?_

 

\---

He finally catches up with Sherlock along the Embankment, his coat whipping in the harsh breeze brought in on the water. John’s hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, his thumbnail pressing against the weak seam. John stands and watches for awhile simply because he can; he wants to look his fill.

After a long while, John can’t say if it’s minutes or hours, Sherlock calls out, “I have the phone number of the kidnapper.” And it’s a lifeline, and invitation to join him. John does, saunters up slowly, cringes when the wind lashes at his face.

They stand side by side for awhile, simply staring at the Thames, saying nothing. Eventually John notices Sherlock reaching into his pocket, a cigarette between his fingers when he removes his hand.

John sighs, feels his lips beginning to chap. “Awfully mature of you, letting me in on that little doozy of a confession and just taking off.”

“Nothing so dramatic, John, I had to retrieve information from one of the network’s informants, I simply chose to tell you as I was leaving to do so.” Sherlock’s fingers toy with the cigarette, rolling it between pointer and middle.

“Hmmm,” he hums and doesn’t actually know what to say. He’s pressing so hard against the seam in his left pocket that it finally gives, his thumbs slipping through the hole. John curls his thumb around and in, forming a fist covered in thin polyester. It’s nerve, that he’s trying to work up. “Sherlock-”

“It’s not sex, John, I understand sex and I understand desire, it’s all very simple, really. Simple cause and consequence, chemical imbalances and inadequacies and something that no one’s put their finger on yet, yes? The minutia is the rub because there’s no mechanisms behind the give and take, there’s nothing to suggest that there’s a set cause and consequence for forgetting to pick up the milk or ignoring the other’s needs in light of your own.” Sherlock speaks fast, fast, lightning fast and all the while his fingers move around the cigarette, _slow_.

“Tomorrow I will say something and it will cut into harder and further than it has before because things have changed, with my wanting you, and because it has to and that’s not something that I want and thus yes, John, this would be an inconvenience, don’t you think?” Sherlock’s voice _does_ cut, as he brings up the cigarette in front of him.

He tosses it before him and it falls down, camouflages itself amongst the detritus along the bank.

“Isn’t that right? I don’t _feel_ properly and you want a croissant and not a bagel and then comes the boring points and I hate you, yes? And you hate me because I don’t _feel_ properly.”

“Right, so you have it all figured out,” John concedes, pursing his lips. “Okay.”

“It’s foolish to even entertain the notion,” Sherlock drawls as though he’s stringing along a thread of conversation that he’s been having with himself, internally.

John nods. He knows what he wants, what he would like and that very much has to do with finding out what the hollow of Sherlock’s throat feels like and how the taller man’s hand fits inside his. He’s not foolish enough to believe that anything he has to say on the matter will influence what Sherlock wants, but the least he can do is hear him out, try to understand. “Perhaps,” John adds, no weight to his words, a simple acknowledgement that he’s listening.

“There are things that I will forget and aspects that I will choose not to adhere to the... strictures of. The, the meeting of family and the public forays into affection and...” Sherlock’s brow furrows as John looks up at him and he can see that it’s finally dawning on the detective, how very much there is to work through. The ins and outs of a relationship.

“John,” he’s a little breathless and a lot lost, it seems. “There are _rules_.”

John shrugs. “There are. There are some that, yes, most people have to follow to be in a proper... relationship, yes.” Sherlock’s eyes flash. “It’s not to say that we can’t both piece together what those are, together.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, “There are many.” A statement of fact and John sees it now, _this_ is the hurdle he’s afraid he won’t overcome, the unpredictability of human emotion, of _affection_.

“Humans are complex, Sherlock. We all are. We live, we learn from out mistakes. All of this is just... the same as all of that, but it’s two individuals instead of just the one, yes?” As in, ‘do you follow?’

Sherlock turns on heel, looks out towards the city, away from the river. “Partners, friends...”

“And then more, yes.” A thrill runs through him as John says it, allowing his mind the possibility of the ‘more’ with this man.

Sherlock stands and breathes and is stock still for long moments. He snaps out of his reverie without any preamble. “I care for you a great deal,” he bounces on the balls of his feet, all nervous energy, tension because of the _unknown_.

“Well then, I suppose that with just like the rest of it, you’ll have to remind yourself, constantly.” There’s a gleam of something in John’s eyes, the ghost of a hopeful smile, but it doesn’t come to fruition. “Or,” John adds, “More likely _I will_ have to remind you constantly.”

“You...” It’s not a question, a statement, but Sherlock is looking at his now, his hands clutched together painfully tight at his waist.

John nods, starts back down the embankment, towards the busy street and flings up a hand. “That’s how these things _work_ ” and John shrugs and Sherlock follows.  


**Author's Note:**

> All of my thanks to underthepiano as I was quite needy with this one.


End file.
